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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29934141">Reflections of Old</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenseven/pseuds/Evenseven'>Evenseven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gomorra - La Serie | Gomorrah (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, No Beta, Random &amp; Short, Spoilers for S3, and the usual angst, it's actually just fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:41:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29934141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenseven/pseuds/Evenseven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He vaguely remembered being accused of apathy back in a freezing place far North, and now it almost felt like another life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ciro Di Marzio/Gennaro "Genny" Savastano</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reflections of Old</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i> Write a story featuring at least three different scenes. The last word of each scene has to be the first word in the subsequent scene, and the last word of the story needs to be the same as the first word of the story.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Yes, I'm still waiting for season 5.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dirty, he cringed looking at the reflection in the mirror, the pale face and sorrowful eyes inflamed with rage for an instant, fucking filthy human being. Dim light inside the Bulgarian club was ever so suffocating, like a nightmare with no means to wake up. He smashed his fist into the dark glossy toilet wall, the echo was barely audible under the drumming music outside this tiny space. So fucking dirty, and no matter how much cold water he splashed to his face, the dirt on his skin just wouldn’t come out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looked like a ghost, Ciro almost laughed at the thought, maybe he was indeed a ghost, or shall be one anyway. The extreme limited time he was exposed to natural sunlight was spent mostly inside moving vehicles or shabby buildings. His skin color was peculiarly light for the first time in life, only to set off the dark circles under his hollow eyes. The lack of sleep made him look more like a ghost each day, but the bliss of unconsciousness just would not come to him, would not let him taste the sweet repose beyond pissed drunk and exhaustion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He worked like a dog, so it wasn’t a surprise that Mladen treated him like a dog. Or worse, a cheap whore. It would be hypocritical to say that he was new to all this, but he could never get used to it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But who could he blame? After Attilio’s brutal death and Rosario getting haunted down like a wild hound, companionship no longer meant a thing to him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ciro cursed in silence, staring at the reflection into those flickering green-hazel eyes. Mladen would pay in demise, he decided. After all, no one was ever like Gennaro.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gennaro was anxiously pacing around the room, which was quite uncharacteristic for him after Honduras. The loathe in his eyes were too evident as he turned to look at Ciro, yet this time Ciro knew the hate wasn’t directed at him, which was also quite uncharacteristic for him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Secondigliano was no longer his home, he said so bitting down a raspy breath, no longer their home.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ciro had never seen him like this, not even when he was young and naive. A defeated animal, licking his bloody wounds only in the dark alley where no others could witness, where only<em> he</em> could witness. What strength was left in his bones Ciro could not judge, but Gennaro came to him for a reason, a reason powerful enough to persuade him to help. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Family. How strange was the idea of family in their discussion, taking account of the <em>unpleasant history</em> of them. But it was different this time, Ciro put out the cigarette butt that almost burned his fingers, exhaling one last time before lifting his eyes to meet the inky ones. He surely knew the taste of getting his family teared away from him, and the anguished horror was something he had not the heart to put Gennaro through, not after everything. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He offered to help, for the sake of his family, and he could’ve sworn there was a slight note of disappointment lined with appreciation in Gennaro’s eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe it wasn’t what he asked for, Ciro contemplated, but it was clearly what he asked for. Maybe it wasn’t about family, he realized as the other man moved closer, bigger frame towering over him, but the murmur was gentler than a lover’s caress.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only you and I are here now. Ciro blinked slowly, letting the words sink in before echoing in a trembling voice, only you and I.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I heard about what you did in Bulgaria.” The statement was almost like a whisper when it slipped out of Gennaro’s lips, yet there was a certain weight in it that made his shoulders tensed up. He gave no reply, so Gennaro continued. “You left quite a mess for the local mafia, and there were talks about a missing whore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He could feel the panic built up in his rigid body, though he realized Gennaro was not talking about <em>that thing</em> in his mind. He slid away from Gennaro’s warm embrace, giving a careless wave to express that he didn’t want to talk about it, and swiftly disappeared into the tiny bathroom.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was easy enough to fall back into their own habit. A sick routine of meeting in somewhere private, fucking each other through the mattress, and <em>then</em> talking about business. None of them utter more than half dozen words during the first two steps, but the passion in their joined movements was so distant yet familiar. He vaguely remembered being accused of apathy back in a freezing place far North, and now it almost felt like another life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bedsheet in the cheap motel was white, but it wasn’t clean. He rubbed the hot water over his face, his arms, his chest, but he wasn’t clean. Ciro stared at his reflection in the mirror again, those eyes were still melancholy, but the repressed anger was long gone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was different, so he decided, this is not Bulgaria, and he was not Ciro the fucked-up Italian dog. Gennaro was different to him, and he had always known that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bathroom door glided open, the other man walked in, wrapped him in strong arms, and kissed the back of his neck. Come back to bed, Gennaro’s thin lips brushing his earlobe, hoarse voice half way between an urge and a pleading. Come back to me, that he didn’t say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ciro let out a quiet sigh, watching the mirror blurred with shower steam and the reflection faded away without a trace. Something else had died with his self-loath for the moment, and he held his breath, turning to capture Gennaro’s soft lips with his owns.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Routine would come to an end somehow, but the acknowledgment of it could not hinder the burning desire. The hurt was no better back home than in Bulgaria, but only Gennaro could make him feel less lonely, less dirty.</span>
</p>
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